


This Ain't a Love Song

by salacious_crumpet



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Smut, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salacious_crumpet/pseuds/salacious_crumpet
Summary: An act of heroism leaves Boone in need of medical attention. Courier Six is not exactly happy to oblige.





	This Ain't a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Look who's jumping on a 7-year-old bandwagon! This is my first foray into the _Fallout: New Vegas_ fandom, so please, be kind.
> 
> Spoilers for the main storyline and the Craig Boone companion storyline.

The shack looked to be abandoned when she and Boone approached the property, but Courier Six knew appearances to be deceiving. Unwilling to ask Boone to walk any further, she told him to stay in place while she and ED-E took a quick look around. She could tell he wanted to argue the matter, either unhappy about the idea of her just having the eyebot guarding her back or him being made to sit and wait, but she made it a command rather than a request. You could take the man out of the military but it seemed you couldn’t take the military out of the man, and Sergeant Craig Boone was too much of a soldier to ignore a direct order. He fetched up against the door-frame, hissing in pain; Six had to force herself to walk away without making a fuss.

 _Stupid, stupid man,_ she thought to herself, crouching low as she moved away from the door and crept around the derelict shack, her senses on high alert. Behind her ED-E bobbed along, scanning the area surrounding them for any sign of a threat. Boone may not have trusted the robot all that much, but ED-E had been the first to join up with her and the eyebot had saved her hide more times than she could count.

She was looking for enemies, but the only thing Six could see was the fight from before, playing itself out over and over again in her mind. More specifically, the mental image of a deathclaw bearing down on her – and Boone jumping in front to take the hit. _Stupid, chivalrous idiot._ What the _hell_ was he thinking? The deathclaw’s giant, claw-tipped paw had swatted him away like he was nothing and he’d gone flying, slamming into the wall of the canyon. For a brief moment Six had been too distracted by the sight of him bouncing limply off the wall and then thudding face-first into the dirt, but she’d managed to regain her wits in the nick of time and a lucky shot from her anti-materiel rifle had taken the damned thing down.

She’d thought he was dead. A hit like that – hell, _two_ hits like that, _smack_ from the claws and then _wham_ into the canyon wall – and _she_ would’ve been dead for sure. She’d shot the deathclaw a few more times, just to be sure it wasn’t getting back up, and then staggered over to where Boone lay, certain she was coming to find his body.

Instead, he’d given himself a shake, muttered “It figures” under his breath, and climbed to his feet.

She didn’t know whether to hug him or punch him. _Stupid, stupid idiot._

Boone was hurt, though – no way anyone could take a hit like that and come out of it okay – and they needed to find shelter. Would’ve been better to have Arcade with them to help patch him up, but Six knew her way around field medicine, she’d make do. They just needed a moment to sit and catch their breath, and neither of them fancied sitting around in an exposed field, not when one of them was injured and there were God only knew what other critters roaming about.

ED-E beeped out an all-clear, and the pair of them made their way around the building to where Boone waited by the doorway. In the growing darkness his sunglasses made it impossible to see his eyes, but his mouth was set in a thin line and now that she was looking at him she could see blood all down one side of his face. She tried not to freak out about that too much – _Head wounds bleed a lot,_ she reminded herself – but it was hard not to be worried.

“We good?” he grunted, pushing himself off the wall. He was unsteady on his feet and Six was already mentally calculating how far she could lug his heavy ass if he went down. Not far, probably, and definitely not if she had to carry all their gear, too. No way they were leaving water and ammo and medical supplies out for any scavenger to take.

 _Sooner leave_ his _dumb ass,_ Six thought uncharitably before nodding at him and forcing the lock on the door. The mental picture of Boone crumpled up face-down in the dust out in the desert made her grimace, and she ducked her head. She wasn’t mad at him, not really. She just wasn’t used to people putting themselves out like that. Not in such a big way, a life or death way. Maybe it had just been instinct on his part – stupid male chivalry, getting the weak little girl out of the line of fire, or natural good-guy instincts to take the hit for his friend ( _is that what we are?_ ) – but damned if she knew what to make of it. In Six’s admittedly limited experience most people were in it for themselves, and while she’d met some fine folks since waking up in Doc Mitchell’s house she couldn’t imagine any of them throwing themselves in front of a fucking deathclaw for someone else.

Inside of the shack was disappointingly bare. Six didn’t know what she’d been hoping for – maybe a full medical suite with one of them X-ray machines and a set of sterile equipment – but what she got were three small rooms. Four, if you counted the dinky little bathroom with its demolished fixings, which she didn’t because what the hell were you supposed to do with half a sink, a tub full of mold and a toilet that had been smashed to pieces on the floor? The living room consisted of a bookshelf filled with charred books that’d probably crumble to bits when you picked them up and a half-rotten couch that looked liable to collapse if you so much as breathed too hard on it. The bedroom was even more barren, just a battered old mattress on a rickety metal frame and an old milk crate for a nightstand. She motioned for Boone to head into the bedroom while she drifted into the kitchen; ED-E beeped at them and took up a guard position outside the shack.

The kitchen was not a complete loss, although she didn’t think she was going to be seeing it on the cover of any of those old _Good Housekeeping_ magazines any time soon. The stove and fridge were both torn apart for scrap, of course, but there were still some salvageable parts Six could toss in her rucksack before they left, and the shelves weren’t completely barren. Under the sink she found some cleaning products she could make do with, and the liquor cabinet had somehow survived more or less untouched, maybe because it was up on the top shelf over the refrigerator. Folks never thought to look up. Six, being short, was in the habit of keeping her eyes heavenward; if she spent all her time looking around at her own eye-level she’d miss half the damn world.

Well, she’d been hoping for more medical supplies – or at the very least some more clean water – but their own stocks weren’t too badly off. Either she’d have what she needed to patch Boone up, or she didn’t; either he’d make it, or he wouldn’t. No point in fretting either way.

Even if he was hurt because of her.

Six shoved that thought aside as being unhelpful and dumped out her supplies on the kitchen table. Weapons, ammo and gear got sorted through and discarded, and she rounded up her assortment of medical supplies, snatching up a rolling vial of Med-X before it could fall off the table and onto the floor. Supplies were getting low, but not enough to worry about. Boone had made it this far on his own two feet; he couldn’t be too badly off. Right?

Six helped herself to the contents of the liquor cabinet, clearing out all the booze and finding a couple discarded packs of cigarettes in the back. Not her thing, really, but some of her other companions smoked, Boone included, and worst case scenario she could always sell the smokes for more caps. Thus supplied, she tossed what she needed for immediate purposes into a smaller sack and made her way to the bedroom.

She had expected to find Boone sitting on the edge of the bed, maybe even having helpfully removed his armour and shirt so she could look at his injuries. (But not his beret or his sunglasses. She was pretty sure he slept in those.) Instead she found him standing, one arm clutched against his side as he stared in the direction of the bed. Puzzled, she looked at the bed, half expecting to discover it was crawling with fleas or bed bugs or maybe even smeared with shit if the concerned expression on Boone’s face was anything to go by, but no, it was just a bed. Dingy old mattress had seen better days ( _haven’t we all?_ ), for sure, and use had worn it out so that there was something of a valley in the middle where everything and everyone would roll inwards, but otherwise: a purely functional, perfectly fine bed.

Boone was staring at it like it had spat in his face and called his mother a whore, and that was a pretty impressive feat considering he looked about ten seconds away from face-planting where he stood.

“It’s a bed,” Six said, and Boone jumped, letting out another low hiss of pain. She pretended not to notice how easy it was to startle him; had he not heard her come into the room? “Sit down, lemme take a look at you.”

“Just one bed,” Boone said, voice hoarse like he’d been screaming. He’d barely said a word since they’d escaped the valley and the dead deathclaw, but that wasn’t anything unusual – Boone barely spoke on the best of days. If she was being honest with herself, that was one of the things Six liked best about him. Arcade and Veronica, they’d talk your ear off if you gave them half a chance, and Lily was always “dear this” and “dear that,” fretting over her like some gargantuan mother hen. Boone, though, he only spoke up if he had something important to say; he didn’t need to fill the silence with empty words. Sometimes, when it was hard to get her thoughts in line and her head was aching in that spot where Benny had shot her, it was nice just hanging out with someone who didn’t put pressure on her to speak or to listen.

“Well, yeah,” Six began, but Boone interrupted her, turning his head so he could look at her. There was a note of desperation in his voice when he said, quietly, “Haven’t shared a bed with anyone since …”

 _Shit._ Of course he hadn’t.

It drove Six nuts sometimes, the way Arcade and Veronica were always worrying over Boone, like he was some broken thing that nobody knew how to put back together. The man had issues – Arcade would have joked that Boone had _subscriptions,_ making a reference none of them got but they would all laugh politely at anyway because you didn’t ever want to piss off the man who patched you up – and they fussed over him like a dog with just one pup. Even Cass tiptoed around him like he was one of her explosives set to go off, and that girl wasn’t cautious around _anyone._ Way Six saw it, though, weren’t none of them that wasn’t a bit broken, it was just that Boone’s issues were a little closer to the surface. Everyone else was all scar tissue and internal injuries while Boone was raw, open wounds. But treating him like he was busted, like he wasn’t something that could be fixed but just had to be _managed_ – that wasn’t doing him any favours.

Still, the man was hurting, on top of _hurting._ She could stand to do a little tiptoeing for a change.

“It’s okay,” she said, motioning for him to sit. “I’ll sleep on the …” On the what? There was just the one bed, as Boone had oh so helpfully pointed out, and the couch would either collapse or get carried off by whatever vermin no doubt lived inside of it. “Floor,” she finished lamely.

“No, ‘s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Six said nothing, simply filing the argument away to be revisited later, once he’d been checked over. When he made no move to sit – indeed, when he made no move to _move_ at all – she cleared her throat loudly and set her bag full of med supplies on the corner of the mattress. Up close she could see the nasty gash that had opened up over Boone’s right eyebrow; it had bled all down the side of his face and there was some wicked bruising there, but the bleeding appeared to have stopped on its own and she didn’t think it would need stitches. She needed to check for signs of a concussion, though; she had no idea if he’d been knocked unconscious when the deathclaw smacked him into the rock wall. Awkward and uncomfortable, Six glanced down at the floor – and noticed a small pool of blood collecting at Boone’s feet.

“Shit, you’re bleeding!” she announced somewhat unnecessarily. Boone’s head tilted downwards as he followed her gaze, and then he lifted his left hand, showing it to her. His fingers were sticky with blood, and now that she was looking she could see his sleeve was soaked with it, from where he’d been keeping his hand pressed against his side. There were violent tears in the flank of his armour, enough that she could see pale skin and blood – so much blood – through the holes. How the hell did he make it this far?

Discomfort and awkwardness eradicated by a sudden sense of urgency, Six helped Boone strip out of his armour, tossing the heavy jacket onto the floor. The shirt underneath was bloody and torn, and she used a knife to cut it off him rather than make him go through the effort of struggling free of sleeves or pulling it off over his head. Armoured jacket and shirt off, Six could see the extent of the damage, and her stomach did a slow, painful roll.

The deathclaw’s talons had slashed three parallel lines across Boone’s side, over his ribs. There were more claw-marks over his left forearm; she thought maybe he’d tried to get a hand up to block the strike. She didn’t think the cuts on his arm were still bleeding but the ones on his abdomen definitely were, and once again she was amazed at the fact that he’d managed to get himself here under his own power. Swallowing heavily, she glanced back at his discarded armour on the floor, then down at herself. Her own armour was far, far lighter than his; had she been the one struck, the deathclaw’s talons would have cut through her armour like a hot knife through butter. Never mind getting thrown into the rocky canyon wall: she would have been dead before she even made it that far.

“Sit down,” she ordered him, pleased to note that she didn’t sound nearly as shaky as she felt. True to form Boone obediently went and sat on the edge of the bed, moving slowly, one hand pressed to his side as if he was afraid that moving it would result in his insides spilling out.

Six searched through her bag for some clean rags, grateful that this supply at least seemed to be in good shape. She didn’t have a desire for playing the part of one of those fancy ladies in that stupid book Cass was always reading, where the heroine ripped off bits of her own clothing – skirts and petticoats, which always seemed like way the hell too much bother to her – to serve as bandages for the stalwart hero, and Boone’s shirt was already a bloody disaster. Uncapping one of the bottles of Cass’s moonshine she splashed it over her hands, hissing at the sting of high-proof alcohol over the many small cuts she hadn’t even realized she had. Hands clean – or as clean as they were likely to be in the Mojave Wasteland – she opened up some of their purified water and dampened one of the scraps of clean cloth.

“This is gonna hurt,” she said.

“’S fine,” Boone grunted again. Jaw clenched, he gritted out, “Just get on with it.”

Biting back a sharp retort – probably something along the lines of “Suit yourself, you big idiot” – Six began cleaning the worst of Boone’s wounds. She was as gentle as she could be, sluicing clean water over the slashes and mopping up the blood so that she could see the damage underneath. He remained silent and stoic throughout the process, but she could feel the muscles bunching and tensing under her hands and could see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. She spared some water and a clean cloth for the blood on his face and was relieved to see that that wound, at least, had closed on its own, as had the cuts on his arm. At least one of the gashes over his ribs would need stitches, though, and she had no way of knowing whether the ribs themselves were busted. Bruises were coming up already, dark against pale skin that seldom saw daylight.

“I’m gonna need to stitch this closed,” she told him before helping him to lay down. He needed more help than she’d expected: he was crashing hard, adrenaline running out and exhaustion catching up on him. By the time he was down on his side he was breathing in short, painful gasps, trying to keep his breaths shallow so as to avoid aggravating his ribs.

She reached for her bag of medical supplies, pulling out a syringe of Med-X. Boone’s fingers curled around her wrist before she could inject the shot, stopping her. His beret had fallen off but his sunglasses were still – mostly – in place, the room too dark to see through them.

“Don’t need a shot,” he told her. He jerked his head in the direction of the bottle of moonshine. “Just gimme a hit of that, I’ll be fine.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” Six replied.

Boone snorted. “Not the first time I been stitched up, Six.”

Six nodded and bit her lip, handing him Cass’s moonshine. He released her wrist and wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle, holding it up to his lips. She had to help him; his hand was trembling, sloshing some booze out over his chin and neck. While he drank she blotted up the spilled alcohol, then used the same cloth to clean more blood off his skin.

His comment had been meant as bravado, but Six could see it for the truth that it was: it wasn’t the first time Boone had been put back together. Hell, she’d done it herself a few times, but that was mostly just little things here and there: busted knuckles from throwing a punch, a bullet crease over his hip when they’d taken down some Fiends, and on one memorable occasion a throwing spear that had grazed his shoulder during a fight with the Legion. Boone had scars from all of that, plus a number of other scars she had always meant to ask about but couldn’t because asking about his scars meant talking about her own, and some doors didn’t need to be opened.

Craig Boone was a well-built man and Six appreciated the opportunity to just … look at him. That it came at such a cost – not a moment caught unawares when he’d been making his way post-bath back to one of the bedrooms at the Lucky 38, but him injured and in need of medical attention – somehow made it all the more precious. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was taller than her (then again, who wasn’t?) and surprisingly muscular. Six had always thought of snipers as being lean and athletic, but while Boone was by no means a large man he was more stocky than slender. Arcade may’ve had height over him, but Boone was heavier, more broad-shouldered and … well, beefy. His skin was pale except for his arms and face from all the time he spent out in the sun, and he was covered in a light dusting of faint, strawberry-blond hair. The hair on his head looked darker, but she wondered, if he ever let it grow out instead of shaving it down to the wood, would it lighten out, too? His eyebrows and the bristly stubble on his cheeks were copper-coloured; he was, she thought, a redhead.

“Ready,” Boone said, drawing her out of her thoughts. She nodded, and set to work.

She made it through stitching up the first slash with Boone sweating and cursing under his breath the whole time. In fact, the near-endless litany of swear words might’ve been the most she’d ever heard him speak at once, and he had a surprising amount of eloquence when it was all profane. Pure-dead filthy and anatomically improbable, but … eloquent. Her stitches were neat, her hands steady, and if she helped herself to some of Cass’s moonshine – the two of them passing the bottle back and forth while she worked – well, she didn’t hear him complaining. Not about her drinking, not about the scars this was no doubt going to leave behind, and not about how much pain he had to be in.

When she readied to move on to the next cut, however, Boone groaned and let his head thump back against the mattress. His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Changed my mind,” he growled. “Give me the shot. Hooch ain’t doin’ a damned thing.”

Six set her suture kit aside and picked up the Med-X, which she’d initially thought to put away before resting it on the nearby milk crate. Before she gave it to him, however, she tugged lightly at his sunglasses, drawing them away from his face. He blinked up at her through tired, bloodshot eyes – eyes that were the deepest, darkest shade of green she’d ever seen. She hadn’t known he had green eyes; she had been expecting brown or maybe hazel.

“You hit your head,” she explained, when he protested the loss of his sunglasses. “I’m trying to figure out how severe your concussion is.”

“Didn’t black out.”

Not losing consciousness was a good sign, but wasn’t the be-all and end-all of concussions. Boone’s eyes reacted appropriately to the light on her Pip-Boy, both pupils dilating an equal amount when she shone the light in his face. He correctly answered her questions about his name, where they were, and what day it was, so memory issues didn’t seem to be a problem, and he wasn’t experiencing any nausea or dizziness, just a bit of pain that was somewhat overshadowed by the more severe injuries he had sustained. She was by no means an expert – Arcade, for all that he was “just a researcher, and a bad one at that,” would have been the better choice for this – but she thought it would be safe to give him the medication. She planned on keeping an eye on him anyway.

Confident she wasn’t making a bad situation worse, Six gave Boone the Med-X injection and he sagged back onto the mattress, his eyelids fluttering shut. It was cliché to think it, but with some of his pain eased Boone did look younger, the tight lines around his mouth and eyes fading. Despite knowing herself to be the elder it was easy to think of Boone as being older than her; his grief and suffering had aged him, making him look and seem older than his twenty-six years. Unable to stop herself Six ran a hand over his shaved head and he sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint semblance of a smile.

With Boone sufficiently medicated it was easier to finish off the stitches. She could tell he still felt it, but he no longer cursed and twitched when the needle speared through his skin, and his hands fell loose and open. She could see the faint crescent moon-shaped indentations on his palms from where his nails had dug into his skin. Six finished stitching Boone’s wounds, then taped down some bandages to keep them clean. Taking note of the dark bruises blossoming across his mid-section she taped up his ribs as well, which took a bit more effort as he was too lost with the fairies to be of much use to her. When the last of Boone’s injuries were attended to Six tidied up the remaining supplies and collected the bloodied scraps of cloth, intending to dispose of them in the firepit outside.

Their earlier argument over who would sleep where appeared to have been settled by the simple expedient of Boone passing out where he lay, but even if he had woken up enough to protest her sleeping on the floor she would have ignored him. Just the thought of him trying to shift himself down onto the floor made her own back twinge in sympathy; he’d have a tough time getting up off the bed, never mind the improbability of peeling himself up off the cold hard floorboards.

Shaking her head, Six packed up the rest of her supplies and left a couple of Med-X syringes and stimpaks on the milk crate. She suspected Boone would use neither, but she wanted him to be able to have the choice even if he probably wouldn’t take it. She didn’t know if it was a martyr complex or a hero complex, or if he just thought he deserved to suffer, but it wouldn’t be the first time Boone was hurting and denied himself the chance to feel better.

Part of it, Six got. Boone didn’t like taking Med-X, or Slasher, or Psycho, or any of the other chems readily available on the Wasteland. He drank and he smoked, but not a lot of either. It wasn’t an aversion to vice; he claimed he just didn’t like not being inside his own head, and that, Six understood. He liked being in control of himself and knowing what was real and what was not, and from some of the nightmares she’d heard him having, she couldn’t say as she blamed him for that. She still woke up gasping around a mouthful of imagined dirt with a gunshot going off inside her head – she understood why Boone might have reasons to keep his mind his own. By that same token, however, she would have completely understood if he’d wanted an excuse to make it all go away for a little while. Memories like his, it would’ve been easy to let drink or chems smooth it all out and dull it all down. Boone didn’t seem the sort of man to take the easy road, though.

The sun had set by the time Six stepped outside their temporary safe house. ED-E floated over to join her, beeping to express its curiosity over Boone’s welfare and to reassure Six that their haven was still secure. Another person might’ve felt silly comforting a robot, but ED-E seemed to like Boone (even if that feeling wasn’t always entirely mutual) and the eyebot had been good to Six. Making sure ED-E knew its companion was going to be okay seemed like the least she could do.

Directing ED-E to keep watch through the night, Six headed back inside. Now that the adrenaline from the fight and the race to safety was over and Boone was all patched up, she could feel exhaustion pulling at her. She stripped out of her light armour, folding the jacket and trying to remember how long she’d been up, but the days and nights all seemed to blur together. She knew it had been three days since she, Boone and ED-E had split up from the rest of the crew on a little recon mission, and she remembered stretching out on the cold ground around a campfire at least once during that time, so she couldn’t have been up for more than a day or two. Like Boone she wasn’t a big fan of taking chems either recreationally or for more “medicinal” purposes, and the strongest stimulant she’d had – outside of good ol’ fashioned natural adrenaline – had been the black coffee he liked to make, that he claimed his mama used to tell him would put hair on a man’s chest. So far her own generous bosoms remained blessedly hairless, but if the soft ginger fuzz over Boone’s chest was any indication the coffee did its job. More importantly, though, it kept her up and active, and was a lot less likely to get her addicted than a jolt of Jet would do.

Six cast a speculative glance towards the couch sat opposite the main entrance. In the darkness it looked much more inviting than it had when she and Boone had first staggered inside the shack, but memories of insects and mold made her reconsider how desperate she was to lie down on it. She could just sit down on one of the kitchen chairs – they didn’t look too beat-up – and set her head down on the table for some quick shut-eye. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be that far away from Boone, though; she knew she was going to have to wake him up every hour or so to make sure his rattled brain wasn’t shorting out. With ED-E on guard outside she didn’t even need to worry about taking a watch during the night; the eyebot would take care of that, letting her and Boone both catch up on some much-needed rest.

Or that was the plan, anyway. A dull thump followed by a muffled curse from the bedroom put a stop to that.

A few short strides from the living room to the bedroom had Six in the doorway before Boone was even up out of bed, and she walked in on him clutching one hand to his injured side while using the other to try and maneuver his way to the edge of the mattress. The dip in the middle kept unbalancing him, however, and from the sound of things he’d knocked over the milk crate in the process. The Med-X and stimpaks were scattered on the ground; unsurprisingly, none of them had been used.

“Back in bed,” Six snapped, feeling a sudden surge of irrational anger. “You’re gonna bust your stitches, and I don’t wanna have to fix you up again.”

“So don’t,” Boone groused back, still struggling to get up. “Didn’t ask you to in the first place. I’m gettin’ up, though – I gotta take a piss.” Seeing her still glaring at him he tossed out, “You want me to do it in the bed? ‘Cause I fuckin’ well will, Six.”

That was a bluff Six did not feel like calling, although it would’ve suited the dumb lug right to have to sleep in his own piss-soaked pants for the rest of the night. Push come to shove she was reasonably certain she could force him back down – on a good night she was no match for him physically, but the man had more stitches in him than her favourite shirt and it wouldn’t take more than a gentle nudge for her to knock him back on his ass. And stubborn jackass that he was, he’d probably just end up hurting himself or busting a stitch, and then it’d be her fault. More than it already was.

Anger dissipating amid that sudden flood of guilt, Six moved into the room and held out her hand to him. Boone regarded her suspiciously for a moment before grudgingly accepting her aid, clasping her hand in his good one and letting her help him up out of bed. It was a good thing he hadn’t taken the floor; there was no way she would’ve been able to pull him to his feet.

Boone made his way towards the exit, moving with the careful deliberation of the medically unsound. Six watched him, but made no effort to help him out, not even when she heard him let out a small hiss of pain or saw the way his shoulders stiffened as he reached out a hand to open the door. He was a proud man, and accepting her help getting out of bed was about pushing the limits of what he could comfortably tolerate. Six didn’t follow him out, since if he wouldn’t want help getting across the room then he sure as hell wasn’t going to want her to hold his dick for him while he was taking a piss. Instead she drifted back into the bedroom and sank down onto the mattress to wait for him.

She hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but a soft sigh of resignation woke her, and when she opened her eyes – surprised to discover herself lying down instead of sitting upright as she had been – Boone was standing over her, smelling faintly of fresh cigarette smoke and looking … well, looking awkward.

“’S fine,” he said for what had to be the hundredth time that night. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Like hell you will.” Six sat up, scooting over to the edge of the mattress to let him sit down beside her. She patted the spot next to her enticingly and tried for a winsome smile, but Boone just glared down at her. She realized he hadn’t put on his sunglasses or his beret, and it felt strange to be looking up at his face and seeing it so unguarded for a change. “C’mon, Boone, I’m not gonna grope you in your sleep.”

“It’s not that.” He made a face, scratching at the top of his shaved head and looking away from her. “Just … not used to it anymore. Having someone else there.”

Not for the first time since waking up in Doc Mitchell’s place with a hole in her head and a giant gap in her memories Six wondered if there was a man – or a woman – left behind, waiting for her and worrying. If there was a man like Boone out there, not knowing his wife had been shot in the head and left for dead in a shallow grave, who wasn’t coming home because she couldn’t remember where home was. She hoped not. The grief on Boone’s face, in his unguarded eyes, made a hard knot coil inside her tummy, and she didn’t ever want to be the cause of that anguish for someone else. She wondered if it would have been easier for her to sympathize with Boone if she’d had any idea what he’d lost. A wife and unborn child: what would it be like, to suffer that kind of tragedy, and more so to know that people you knew and trusted were responsible for it? Never mind the choice he’d been forced to make, alone, outnumbered and outgunned, with only one shot that he had to make count. Boone had shot his pregnant wife in the head rather than leave her alive to suffer the torture and indignities of life as a Legion slave. Six didn’t know if she’d ever have it in her to make that kind of decision for someone she loved.

“C’mon, Boone,” she said again, giving the mattress another gentle pat. God, he looked awful: huge circles under his eyes, nasty gash on his forehead, black sutures standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin. He needed to rest. “Come on. It can’t be that different than what you did for rack time in the NCR. Just pretend I’m another soldier.”

“Not the same.” He spoke down at the floor, gaze fixed on a mark that could either be a stain or an insect. It wasn’t moving, so Six hoped it was just a stain. Probably blood. Probably _Boone’s_ blood, truth be told. “They weren’t …”

His voice trailed off, and Six thought about what he might have been about to say next. They weren’t … what? Female? Attractive? _Did_ he find her attractive? Was that the problem? Would it have been easier for him to curl up next to her if she’d been someone he didn’t find desirable? Six had caught Boone watching her and thought he liked what he saw, but he was a hard man to read sometimes, especially with the sunglasses in place. And in truth, he kind of stared at everyone – Boone was the sort who saw and heard everything – but it seemed to her that he stared just a little bit longer when it was her. Not that she minded. He wasn’t particularly charming or good-natured, but Six found herself oddly enticed by that whole strong, silent type thing he had going for him. And maybe she’d been reading too much of Cass’s book, but the idea of being the one to … fix … Craig Boone was strangely appealing to her. She’d never been attracted to the fixer-upper type before, but if she was honest with herself she was attracted to _this_ fixer-upper.

“Boone, you need to rest, and I’m tired, too.” Six saw his eyes dart to her face, saw him take in the dark shadows under her own eyes, the exhaustion she made no effort to hide. Arcade would’ve said it was dirty pool to play upon the sniper’s obvious chivalrous streak, but if that’s what it took to get the man to lay down then dirty pool it was.

“Sleep on the floor,” Boone said, casting around for a suitable spot from which to do so. Before he could begin the laborious process of folding himself down on the ground Six caught him by the hand and tugged him towards the bed, and this time, despite the clear uncertainty on his face, he made no effort to resist. He sank down slowly beside her, grunting as the movement pulled on his stitches. His right shoulder was beginning to turn all sorts of shades of black and blue although he didn’t seem to have any stiffness in that arm – a good thing, considering he was a sniper and right-handed, but she would need to keep an eye on it. He’d probably banged his shoulder up hitting the canyon wall, or maybe when he’d finally landed on the dirt.

“Lie down,” Six ordered him, voice soft but with a tone that brooked no arguments. “You get in next to the wall, and if it makes you feel better we can sleep back-to-back. Completely impersonal.”

“Want my back to the wall,” he objected, although he did obediently lie down on his good side, keeping his weight off the worst of his injuries. His good arm – his marginally good arm, Six mentally corrected, thinking of his poor battered shoulder – curled protectively around his mid-section, over the bandages taped across his flank.

Of course he’d want his back to the wall, even with her here and ED-E standing guard outside. Boone’s paranoia was deep-seated and not entirely irrational. Six wasn’t about to sleep with her back to the door, either, and she said so, her comment making the corners of Boone’s mouth twitch upwards just a tiny bit.

“Gonna guard me, Six?” he asked lightly.

“Somebody has to,” Six replied, and although her own tone was just as light in her mind she was seeing the deathclaw swatting at him, sending him flying loose like a ragdoll into the stone wall. She could still hear it: _smack_ from the deathclaw, a low grunt of pain from him, and then _wham_ as he collided with the canyon wall, and then after that, her own heartbeats too loud inside her chest as a panicky voice in her head screamed that this was it, she was dead.

Six cleared her throat, swallowing around the lump that seemed to be growing there. She didn’t lay down, but rather sat up beside Boone, frowning down at him. His eyes were closed, surprisingly fine and pale-coloured lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he worked on breathing around the pain in his side.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment. One eye cracked open, staring up at her, and when his brows drew together in consternation she continued, “For what you did. With the deathclaw.” Oh hell, now she was even talking like him. She licked her lips and tried again. “You saved my life, Boone. If you hadn’t jumped between me and that thing … it would’ve killed me. Please don’t think I don’t know that, or that I don’t appreciate it.”

The eye closed and Boone sighed. “Better me than you, yeah?”

Six wanted to tear apart that thought, to pick at it and prod at it until Boone understood that she was no more important than he was and that there was no need for him to sacrifice himself to save her, but she didn’t have the energy or the brain cells for that kind of conversation, and even if she did, she didn’t think he was in any place to hear it. She could save it for another time and place – and in all likelihood, it was an argument she was going to need to have with him again and again and again until she got it through his thick skull that he had nothing to atone for, that what had happened to him was not his fault and that he was a good man in spite of the things he had done.

Instead she just patted his arm where it lay draped over his side and reached down for the chems laid out on the milk crate, picking up one of the syringes of Med-X.

“I’m gonna give you another shot,” she told him. He made a small sound of protest but it was half-hearted at best; he must really be in pain. “It’ll make it easier for you to rest. ED-E’s gonna keep watch outside and I’ll be right here. We’ll be safe.” _You’ll be safe,_ she wanted to add, but she didn’t need to be a super-genius like Arcade to know that Boone wouldn’t give two shits about his own safety.

She gave him another Med-X injection, which in addition to easing his pain had the combined effects of making him drowsy and pliable – the latter a term she would never in a million years have applied to Craig _fucking_ Boone, the First Recon Murder Machine. Boone’s laboured breathing evened out, his mouth falling slack as he drifted off, and for the first time since she’d met him over in Novac he looked younger than his twenty-six years. Dropping the empty syringe on top of the crate to be discarded later, Six curled up beside Boone, her back settled in against his broad chest, and pillowed her head on her arm. She thought about taking off her boots and was asleep before the thought could finish itself.

O o O o O

Six had planned to set an alarm on her Pip-Boy to wake her up every hour so that she could monitor Boone’s concussion, but when she woke up she instinctively knew that much more than an hour had passed and that no such alarm had been set. She awakened somewhat stiff and achy but with such a feeling of drowsy contentment that for a moment she just wanted to settle back and let herself drift off again. There was a warm, pleasant weight slung over her waist and a mouth breathing hot air against the back of her neck, and for the first time in a long, long time she felt safe and at peace. A hand, warm and calloused, slid under the ribbed fabric of her tank top before settling casually and comfortably over her breast, resting there as though it had every right to be there, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. She shifted every so slightly, noticing that the arm she’d been using as a pillow was on the verge of falling asleep, and as she moved she became aware that she was shifting against the solid weight behind her – and that while the man himself might still be fast asleep, at least a certain part of his anatomy was awake and mindful of her wriggling.

The hand palming her breast gave a soft, gentle squeeze and Six bit down on a gasp. There was no doubt in her mind that Boone was asleep; after all the song and dance he’d gone through before grudgingly agreeing to share a bed with her there was no way he had just woken up this morning – or was it still night out? – and decided to grope her. By his own admission the last person he’d shared a bed with had been his wife Carla, and while she never would’ve figured Boone to be the cuddling type she imagined he’d spent a lot of mornings curled up beside his wife, his arm draped over her waist to draw her in close. He’d gone to bed doped to the gills on Med-X; the poor bastard probably thought she was Carla and the erection he was grinding against her ass was probably just his morning wood. That was normal, that was natural. _No need to get flustered about it, Six._

Six couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up to such casual intimacy. Her memories of her life before Goodsprings were hazy at best, and since waking up in Doc Mitchell’s house the only man – hell, the only person – she’d had sex with had been Benny, and he sure as shit hadn’t survived the encounter. She didn’t think she’d been a virgin before Benny, but she had no idea if it was normal for her to spend the night with a lover, and waking up in the presidential suite at the Lucky 38 with Cass passed out beside her did not count.

This was … it was kinda nice.

The bare chest at her back was solid and broad, and the arm around her waist was warm and nicely muscled. Boone had a good body, a fit body, suitable for hard labour and ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. He was … not unattractive. In fact, truth be told, Six found him _quite_ attractive, even with his grumpy expression and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. And while she certainly didn’t consider herself to be the damsel-in-distress type, she had to admit that there was something incredibly hot about a man who was willing to throw himself between her and danger.

If it wasn’t for the whole dead-wife-self-loathing thing Boone had going on, she probably would’ve conked him over the head and dragged him back to her cave ages ago. Or whatever polite euphemism for “fucked his ginger brains out” the kids were using these days.

Boone shifted, sighing against her neck, his warm breath sending a little shiver down her spine. His arm around her waist tightened, drawing her in closer, and the hand at her breast gave another gentle squeeze. His thumb stroked idly and lazily at her nipple, and this time Six was unable to stop her startled – and not entirely uncomfortable – gasp.

The body behind her immediately went stiff, the hand pulling away as though her skin was on fire. Boone cursed in a panic-filled voice that was thick with sleep as he struggled to draw back from her and sit up.

“Sorry, shit, shit, I’m sorry,” he babbled in between pained hisses as he struggling to a sitting position.

Six let herself uncurl slowly, languorously, doing her best to give the impression that she had been woken up by Boone’s awakening, rather than that she had been lying there fully aware of his body’s response to hers. When she spoke her own voice was sleepy and unconcerned. “It’s fine. We were asleep, you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Shouldn’t have –” he began, before cutting himself off and forcing himself upright, jaw clenched around another painful grunt. “Should’ve slept on the floor – never should’ve –”

“Boone.” Six twisted around to face him. “It’s fine. It was actually … kinda nice. I haven’t slept that good in ages, and I’m willing to bet you haven’t, either.”

He gave her a grudging nod, unwilling to stop the self-flagellation. “Got no right touching you like that. Not some whore for me to put my hands all over.”

Six closed her eyes, mentally counting to ten. _God save me from prudish white knights._ When she opened her eyes again Boone was rubbing his hands over his face, the soft sound of calloused skin moving over stubble filling the otherwise quiet room.

“Boone, have you ever, even once, in the entire time we’ve been working together, treated me like you thought I was some kind of whore?” she asked him after the silence had stretched out between them. He gave his head an abrupt shake, grimacing. “Of course you haven’t. So why on earth, after everything we’ve been through together, would I suddenly come to the conclusion that you’ve just been biding your time hiding behind this whole gentleman act just so that you could randomly decide to grope me in our sleep?” To claim that Boone had been behaving as a gentleman this whole time would perhaps have been stretching things, but at the very least it was fair to say that he mostly just treated her the way she expected he would have treated any other soldier. Sure, he was aware that she was a woman – and, she liked to think, an attractive woman at that – but out in the field it made no never-mind to him. They were partners, they were a team. He treated her with respect, and it wasn’t the kind of respect that suggested he was just being polite until he’d lured her in with his charms ( _what charms?_ ) and he could make his big move.

“Still,” he said, then paused, rasping a hand over his shaved head. He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Got no right touching you.”

“Boone.” She felt like she was going to wear his name out, but when she said it he opened his eyes again and stared down at her. “Did you mean to touch me like that?”

“Fuck no.” Then, as if realizing that his vehemence might perhaps be seen as offensive – as if the very thought of touching her in any way was abhorrent to him – he continued, “Not that you’re not … y’know … I mean … Find you attractive, yeah. But no, didn’t … didn’t mean to put my paws all over you.”

“Fine, then.” Six wiped her hands together, making a show as if dusting them off. “I accept your apology. Lie back down and go back to sleep.”

Boone let his head drop down onto his chest, but then slowly and carefully made his way back down onto the mattress beside her. Now they were lying face to face, and this close it was impossible for her not to see the pain and grief and guilt in his brilliant green eyes. He had beautiful eyes – it was such a shame he always kept them hidden behind sunglasses.

“Dreamt I was with Carla,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily. She had assumed that’s who he’d thought he was sleeping with, in his drugged-up state. He’d warned her: he hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since his wife’s death.

“Do I remind you of her?” Six asked gently.

He thought about it then shook his head, letting out a soft, rueful chuckle. “No. Carla’s … Carla was a tall woman. Queenly. She was beautiful. Not that you’re not …” He shifted, awkward. “Folks said she was prickly, found her rude, but she was just … bold. Said what was on her mind, even if folks wouldn’t like it. And in Novac, folks didn’t like it. Wasn’t happy there. Hated it, but stayed on account of me. If she hadn’t …” His voice trailed off, and Six touched his arm, lightly, before curling her fingers around his bicep and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re not like her. She stayed and was miserable. You push things around – you push _me_ around – until they’re to your liking. You change things that need changing.”

Six considered his words, marvelling at how much he had to say. Boone had always been the strong, silent type, and it often gave the impression that he wasn’t all that bright, that he kept his mouth shut because he couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. That impression was wrong, though: so wrong. He saved his speech for when it mattered. He was a patient man, a perceptive man, and as the saying went, still waters ran deep. Craig Boone, it seemed, ran very deep indeed.

“Is that a good thing?” she asked him finally, releasing his arm.

Boone swallowed heavily and nodded. “Yeah. Think it is.”

Rolling over onto her back, Six stretched out with her arms up over her head for a pillow. She was not blind to the way Boone’s eyes followed her movement, his gaze drawn to her breasts, her nipples poking up against the fabric of her tank top. He swallowed again, ducking his head, and although it was too dark to be certain she thought she saw a faint flush spreading across his cheeks. Who knew the Murder Machine could blush?

Six thought about the way Arcade and Veronica treated him, like he was some wounded animal they had to be cautious around. Broken beyond repair. Maybe he was broken, but she didn’t think he was unsalvageable. Carla was gone and she was never coming back and he _knew_ that – he had been the one to kill her, after all, shooting her in the head to spare her and their unborn child a fate worse than death. But she – Six – was here, and while she couldn’t ever offer him what he’d had with his dead wife, maybe she could offer him some semblance of peace and happiness. Sometimes, in the Mojave Wasteland, you learned to take what you could get.

“You can touch me, if you want,” she said softly. Boone’s eyebrows shot upwards, and before he could say anything she added quickly, “If you don’t want to, that’s okay, too. I won’t be offended. But it was nice, before.” _Before you woke up and started freaking out._ She didn’t say that out loud. “So if you wanted to, I would like it.”

Boone was tentative, hesitant, and when he lifted his hand and placed it on her stomach, over her tank top, his eyes were on her face rather than on what his hand was doing. Six made herself lie still, her breathing even, but even that simple touch was enough to make her heart speed up in her chest. How long had it been since someone had touched her like this? Benny didn’t count; she hadn’t wanted that, she had just taken the easiest route to getting what she wanted – which was him dead – and it had worked. This, though? Boone’s hand, big and warm and calloused, fingertips running lightly over the dingy white fabric, rucking it up until – breath held – he exposed the bare skin of her stomach. _This,_ she wanted.

Fuck, she kind of wanted it a lot.

“Soft,” he murmured, mostly to himself. His thumb rubbed circles over her stomach, his touch too heavy to be ticklish. He looked at her, expression apologetic. “Been a while since I –”

Six lifted her head up and kissed him, stopping him before he could finish the apology. She started the kiss, but the moment her lips met his he took possession of it, his mouth hungry on hers, pressing her back down against the mattress while his hand slipped under her shirt. His rough palm closed around her breast again and she pushed up, encouraging him to continue. He tasted like moonshine and cigarettes, but underneath that there was a taste she couldn’t quite place, something that was simply but unmistakably Boone. Her lips parted and his tongue swept inside her mouth, and when she moaned his mouth swallowed the sound.

He drew back and for one agonizingly long moment Six was afraid he had decided this was a bad idea, and she was prepared for that, prepared for him to not be ready to move on from his grief. But then he lowered his head to her breast, his mouth closing around the fabric over her nipple, sucking it in, and she knew that he was far from done. When he pulled away and moved on to the other breast Six saw a big wet circle on her tank top and her nipple was hard and aching.

Six’s hand snaked out between them, finding the growing bulge between his legs. The erection he’d woken up with earlier had flagged, panic and embarrassment overriding desire, but now that things were heating up between them again Boone’s interest was growing increasingly obvious. She palmed him through the crotch of his pants and he groaned against her breast, bucking his hips against her hand in open invitation. Six accepted that invitation, nimble fingers working at his belt buckle, flipping it open before deftly unbuttoning the fly of his pants. When she slid her hand inside, slipping in under the waistband of his boxers, she found him completely hard.

“Is this okay?” she asked him. His only answer was a jerky nod followed by a long groan. She nudged him over onto his back, her eyes on his face, searching for some indication that his injuries were paining him, but the only thing she saw written there was desire.

Still, she was careful. He was wounded, and there was nothing like an injury to the midsection to make you aware of how much you relied upon all the muscles there. Once he was on his back she flipped his pants open and began working them down his hips; he tried to lift his ass to help her but she was worried he’d pull his stitches and ordered him back down. The pants could stay where they were; she could work around them.

Eyes still fixed on Boone’s face, Six tugged down the waistband of his boxers, then reached inside and drew out his cock, delighting in the soft huff of breath he let out the moment her fingers touched his skin. He had, she thought, rather a nice cock: not overly long, but thick and smooth, with an uncut tip already glistening with precum. He could stand to have a wash, but this was the Mojave Wasteland, _everybody_ could stand to bathe more often, and she didn’t find his musky scent unappealing. It was, like the taste of him, simply and unmistakably Boone.

Six licked her palm and wrapped it around Boone’s cock, giving it a single experimental stroke. He groaned again, eyes closing, his head falling back to the mattress. She stroked him again, watching his expressions, picking up speed and changing the pressure based on his responses. Then, when his breathing started to get ragged, she bent and took him into her mouth. Boone gasped, hips bucking, and she had to draw back a little or risk cutting him with her teeth. Once he had calmed down a little she lowered her head again, drawing him fully into her mouth as deep as she could take him while her hands stroked over the parts of him her mouth couldn’t reach.

Boone’s hands closed around her hair, fingers tangling in the curls, but he made no effort to direct her; rather he seemed to be holding on for dear life. She thought she could stand for him to be a bit rougher with her but they were still finding their feet with each other; with any luck this would be but one of the many opportunities she would have to do this with him – for him.

She wasn’t surprised when it only took her a few minutes of steady licking, sucking and stroking for Boone to be bucking and gasping beneath her, his fingers tightening in her hair. He was young and God only knew how long it had been since he’d last had anyone more than his own hand for company. She’d barely settled into a rhythm before his hands started pushing her away, and his voice was ragged and rasping when he managed a hoarse “I’m gonna …” She hummed in approval, earning herself another rough gasp, and when she smiled up at him with her eyes Boone lost what little control he still had. He groaned, low and desperate, and then he came, spilling himself down her throat as she used the fingers of one hand to milk him.

Boone flopped back onto the mattress, his eyes rolling back in his head as he struggled to catch his breath. Swallowing, Six sat up, feeling immensely pleased with herself, and discreetly wiped her mouth off on the back of her hand.

“Holy shit,” Boone murmured, eyelashes fluttering, one hand resting lightly on his chest where his heart was pounding hard enough Six was sure she could hear it. “Holy shit.”

“So, that was good, then?” Six asked, tone arch.

He opened his eyes, staring up at her. “Fuck you, you’re amazing.”

Six suspected it’d been too long since the last time he’d had sex for Boone to be completely objective, but she accepted the praise nonetheless. Boone’s hand came up, fingers twisting in her hair again, and he drew her head down to him, capturing her mouth in a long, hungry kiss. She was a bit surprised when his tongue parted her lips, pushing into her mouth to taste himself, but when he didn’t pull away or make a disgusted face she settled into the kiss, resting one hand on his chest to steady herself. She was careful to put as little weight on him as possible; he might be feeling pretty good now, but when the Med-X and the post-orgasmic bliss wore off he’d be hurting bad again.

“Lie down,” Boone growled against her mouth, directing her back into the position she’d been in when they had both woken up, her back pressed to his front and his arm draped over her hip. He nuzzled at her neck, lips and teeth worrying the sensitive skin over her collarbone as his hand slid down under the waistband of her trousers.

“You don’t have to –” Six began, but Boone’s teeth closed around the shell of her ear and he whispered, “Want to.” His breath was warm against her skin.

Boone’s hand slipped inside her panties and he made a pleased sound at discovering how incredibly wet she was. He was gentle, calloused fingers stroking through the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs, stroking in slow and tender circles without moving his hand to where she wanted it the most. A strange, needy sound escaped her, and Six bit down on her lower lip, warmth flooding her at his soft chuckle that blew hot air against her ear.

When his finger finally parted her lips, pushing gently inside of her Six let out a low, keening sound and bucked against him. He hissed – she’d forgotten his injured side – but when she tried to apologize he nipped her ear and he slipped a second finger inside of her and suddenly any hope of coherent speech was gone. That seemed fine by Boone, who delighted in the animalistic whines and whimpers he was able to elicit from her. The rough pad of his thumb rubbed tight circles over her clit and it took everything she had for her not to buck and jerk against him. Boone’s breath was warm on her face as he began to murmur in her ear, and in that instant the strong, stoic sniper who barely spoke more than two words at a time disappeared, replaced by a man who took great pleasure in whispering the filthiest, most incredibly dirty things to her. How good she’d looked with his cock in her mouth, how badly he’d wanted to fuck her from the moment he laid eyes on her back in Novac, all the things he’d wanted to do to her and have her do to him and how desperately hard he’d been all those times at the Lucky 38 when only thin walls had separated them.

How good she was going to look falling to pieces in his hands.

It had been a long time for her, too.

The shock of it – the shock of _Boone, talking_ – combined with what his fingers were doing to her, his hot breath against her skin and his mouth trailing kisses down the back of her neck – was enough to tip Six over the edge. She came, hard, unable to stop herself from crying out, her hips jerking into his hand. He rode her through it, thrusting his fingers into her, his thumb still working its inexorable rhythm against her clit, until it was too much, too intense, too sweet and she had to pull his hand away.

He brought his fingers up to his lips and cleaned them off, making loud, satisfied smacking sounds, his gaze on her the whole time. _Holy shit,_ indeed.

“That was good, then?” Boone asked her, in the same arch tone she had used.

“Fuck. You.” Six flopped bonelessly beside him, the sweet aftershocks of her orgasm still rippling through her body.

He chuckled, and damn if that wasn’t just the sexiest goddamn sound she’d ever heard. The man didn’t laugh nearly enough.

“Maybe later,” he murmured, sounding intensely smug. His arm slid around her waist again, pulling her in close, his hand sliding up under her tank top to rest possessively over her breast. “Gotta catch my breath.”

Six settled in against him, enjoying the warmth of him at her back and the strange yet pleasurable sense of security she got from him holding her. She tried and failed to remember if this was something she had done before, if she had engaged in post-coital cuddling with her lovers prior to being shot in the head and dumped in a shallow grave. She couldn’t picture it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.

“You okay?” she asked him after a few minutes of companionable silence.

Boone considered her question carefully before answering. “Yeah. Think I am. Gonna hurt later, but for now? This is good.”

Six wasn’t quite sure whether he meant his injuries or his grief, but she wasn’t so naïve as to think what had just happened between them would have solved everything for him. Boone was still a man burdened with incredible guilt and trauma, and that wasn’t something she could just fuck away (although she was certainly willing to put that idea to the test, if he felt so inclined). She wanted to talk to him about what had happened earlier, him throwing himself in front of that deathclaw for her, but this wasn’t the time. Truth be told, she wanted to talk to Boone about a lot of things – more specifically, she thought _he_ could benefit from the talking – but had no idea where or how to start.

“You okay?” he asked her. His chest rumbled against her back when he spoke.

She didn’t need to take as much time as him to consider her response, but she did anyway, enjoying the warmth of his body beside her. Finally, as her heart began to slow and her breathing returned to normal, she nodded, her head tucked in under his chin.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I think I am. This is good.”

“Yeah.” Boone sounded drowsy but content, his hand tracing lazy patterns over her stomach. “Yeah, this is good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure who's responsible for the whole "First Recon Murder Machine" nickname but I've seen it in a few places on Tumblr and in fanfiction, and it is too good not to use here. Props to you, kind stranger!
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at: https://salaciouscrumpet.tumblr.com/


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